— a dependent , multi muse ensemble of original characters curated for briarbend. an intimate constellation that moves as one , braided together by history and choice. and the realization that love — romantic , platonic , familial — remains stubbornly vital. at its heart , this is a study of connection.
˖ ⊹ i've got my eyes 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 since the day we met — 𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 — when you're next to me , i don't need anything else. 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒'𝑠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧.
"beau langford." if there's one thing a southern woman can do, it's reprimand a southern man. "shame on you for lumpin' me in with your crude — and cynical — outlook." if there's one thing the daughter of an olivier-award winning actress ( with nothing better to do than bring her melodramatics to the family parlor rather than the theatre stage ) can do, it's lean into a performance. she makes an affected face that resembles something like my heavens, which is either a remark on a remark, or the fact that she looks a little bit like an angel with her hair pinned up like that. "this is a wedding, bobo. you can take that skepticism and tuck it in with your shirt. show a little regard for our lovely couple."
all that sugar in her voice, and there's a beat. a pause for it to settle. stir in. birdie takes a sip of her drink; something to make the bullshit go down easier. "'sides—" finally, birdie loops a hand through the crook of beau's elbow and winds her voice, hushed and coy, into his ear as she steers them into motion. "—i was thinkin' the premium on life insurance policies."
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ beau lets out a quiet huff at his name, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a warning, his head tilting just enough to look at her properly. there’s a flicker of amusement there, sure — but it’s edged, sharpened by the way she calls him out like she’s got the right to. maybe she does. “now hold on,” he drawls, slow and easy, though there’s a bite tucked beneath it. “i ain’t lumpin’ you in with nothin’. you volunteered yourself into that mess, darlin’.”
his gaze drags over her expression, that dramatized little look she’s put on, and for a second — just a second — something softer almost breaks through. almost. “and don’t you start preachin’ to me about shame,” he adds, quieter now, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “you look like you’re enjoyin’ this a little too much for someone so concerned with propriety.” he lets her take his arm without resistance, his posture loosening as she pulls him along, though his attention never quite leaves her. not really. not when she leans in close like that, voice dipping low, conspiratorial.
there’s a pause — just long enough for her words to land. then he lets out a short, surprised laugh, head dipping as he shakes it. “there she is,” he murmurs, glancing down at her with something closer to approval now. “knew you weren’t all lace and manners.”his hand shifts slightly against her arm, more deliberate now, guiding their pace instead of just following it. “life insurance, huh?” he hums, thoughtful, amused. “now that’s the first sensible thing i’ve heard all night.” his eyes flick toward the happy couple, then back to her, something darker settling in behind the charm.
“you plannin’ ahead,” he adds under his breath, voice low, “or just hopin’ for a payout?”
⎯⎯ " excuse me , mr. langford ? " words are accompanied by two soft knocks on a cracked door , head peeking through what little space she could manage to get it through . " i'm here for that lunch meeting . . . about the gala ? " there wasn't a meeting , there never was , an audible smile not helping the fact that she was almost sure beau's assistant was onto them in some capacity . she lets herself slip in , door and it's blinds shut , bag full of their lunch cautiously rested atop of a conference table along with her purse , slow steps crossing over to behind beau's desk . " come on , counselor , " she starts , arms slid around his shoulders from behind his chair , a kiss pressed to his cheek . " you're due for a break , i brought us some lunch ⸺ " another kiss , close enough to his ear to whisper , " . . . and that pie you like from saddleback . " ( @cocosugars )
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ the furrow in beau's brow eases the moment she’s close , like the tension has somewhere to go that isn’t clawing its way out of him. her scent reaches him first — warm , soft , something sweet and familiar that settles low in his chest and lingers there. it steadies him in a way nothing else quite can. his hand finds her waist without thinking , fingers curling just enough to draw her in , like he’s grounding himself in her. there’s no hesitation when he leans in — just a quiet certainty — his head tilting as his lips meet hers , slow at first , then firmer , more certain. like he’s claiming something he’s already decided is his.
“mmm …” the sound is low , almost indulgent , felt more than heard as he lingers there , catching the taste of her gloss , letting it sit on his tongue like he’s committing it to memory. his thumb shifts slightly against her side , absentminded but deliberate , like he’s aware of every inch of her under his hand. he pulls back just enough to look at her, not far — never far — his gaze dropping to her lips before dragging back up , darker now , heavier with intent. “think i might be in the mood for somethin’ sweeter ,” he murmurs , voice roughened at the edges , the words brushing against her mouth more than spoken outright.
" a sensitive stomach ? " words are spoken as if the diagnosis were completely unheard of. she shrugs and lets her nail tap against table top with a quiet exhale. " i suppose you'd be reciting your lines with your head in the toilet, wouldn't you ? " a small, playful smirk pulls at the corner of her mouth while taking fork to stab into slice of meat. " what, am i wrong ? " she pushes cut around on the plate before ultimately putting fork down once again and letting her gaze lift to chloe once more. " something tells me you're not kidding. you have that look in your eye, and i swear, if you send that plate back for a fourth time i'm leaving you with the bill. "
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ “not entirely lying ,” chloe says , offering a vague , noncommittal shrug , like the truth is optional at best. “my trainer says my body is still … acclimating ,” she adds , the word rolling off her tongue with mild skepticism , as if she doesn’t quite believe it herself. the waiter returns then , careful , almost hesitant as he sets the plate in front of her. chloe doesn’t acknowledge him immediately , just picks up her fork and presses lightly into the chicken , studying it for a moment like it’s something to be evaluated rather than eaten.
“hmm ,” she hums, finally. “acceptable.” she takes a small bite — measured , delicate —before dabbing at the corners of her lips with her napkin , precise and unhurried. “i’ll foot the bill anyway , love. my treat.” her gaze lifts to giuliana then , something softer slipping into her expression , though it never quite loses that polished edge. “so ,” she says , lightly licking her lips , “what’s new with you ?”
romy had just been passing by, returning to the bar from the restroom on the opposite side of the luxury patio. she'd met up with a friend there earlier—acquaintance, really—and had maybe spent a couple minutes too long in absence in an attempt to think of an excuse to head out. faking sick was never fun and climbing out the restroom window was a bit too absurd, even for her. maybe if she said she'd gotten a phone call...
the thought crossed her mind as she was forced into a sudden halt, a server freezing in her path at the request of a patron. romy stood by a few seconds, a few more. it was only to be expected that she overhear whatever was causing the hold up. clear to all, apparently, since once she glanced over at the customer in fleeting curiosity, she was met with a snide remark. fuck her if her eyes had widened a little... or a little more than a little. she'd never been good at keeping her thoughts from reading on her face. "i guess you're lucky we're in an american restaurant, then," she offered with a shrug and flat, curt chuckle.
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ chloe doesn’t turn right away , but the corner of her mouth lifts the second she hears it. not quite a smile — something smaller , sharper , like she’s been handed exactly the kind of comment she enjoys. when she does look over , it’s unhurried , deliberate , her gaze settling on romy with an ease that feels practiced. “mm ,” she hums softly , glass still poised in her hand , the wine catching the light as she tilts it just slightly. “and here i was thinking i was being careful.” the words are light, almost playful , but there’s a quiet edge beneath them , something that doesn’t quite let the moment pass as a joke.
her eyes move over romy — not invasive , not crude , just enough to acknowledge her fully — before returning to her face. “though i suppose that’s my mistake ,” she adds , voice smooth , composed. “assuming people mind their business.” it isn’t said harshly. if anything , it’s too calm for that , the kind of tone that makes it harder to push back against. she takes a small sip then , like the conversation barely requires her attention , before setting the glass down with a soft , precise motion. “but you’re right ,” she continues , a faint smile pulling at her lips now , something a touch more amused. “we are in an american restaurant.” a beat passes , just long enough to feel intentional. “which means i should probably lower my expectations ,” she finishes , almost pleasantly , like she’s offering a simple conclusion rather than an insult.
blinks rapidly while watching waitress walk away with plate, delicate motions of cutting into own new york strip coming to a halt. giuliana was one to want things done right the first time, but there's no way dish is wrong for a third. settles silverware down with barely heard clink and has to resist childishly folding her arms across her chest. " at this point i think you're just being a bi— " giuliana bites her tongue. " not very pleasant. " leans back in chair and lets brow lift in mock curiosity. " by making their lives a living hell first, hm ? do you expect for them to cut and feed it to you too ? "
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ the slip of the tongue didn’t go unnoticed. chloe smirked over the rim of her wine glass , taking a deliberate sip before setting it down with a soft clink. “i have a sensitive stomach !” whether that was true or not hardly mattered. “i’m filming a movie — could you imagine if i got food poisoning ?” she gasped , eyes wide , faux horror dripping from every syllable. “oh , pish posh , giuliana !” she whined , waving her hand like the offense was almost theatrical. “ … why is that even an option ?” she laughed , tilting her head back slightly. “i’m kidding , of course !” the laugh lingered , easy , indulgent , all charm and mischief , as if the world existed solely to amuse her.
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ picky princess wasn’t just a rumor — it was fact. again , she sent her dish back , the third time , without so much as a flinch. her guest raised an eyebrow , clearly trying to contain a look of disbelief , but chloe just met it casually , as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “what ? it’s their job. they should get it right ,” she said , swirling the deep red in her glass with a languid flick of her wrist. “ugh , don’t give me that look. i always tip generously.”
southern high society should expect a sham wedding at least every other tuesday— some bright eyed fool falling for someone equally foolish, sure to be at the divorce table before ink dries on marriage certificate. she's only attending the wedding at the behest of her parents who believe their eldest daughter is in the early stages of a midlife crisis. cat eye manicured nail taps impatiently on the stem of champagne glass, face pulled taught in faux pleasantries that are shallow at best. dior lip oil stains the rim of the glass when she hears beau's quip and it's the first time a true smile pulls at the corner of her mouth. " i plead the fifth. " giuliana zips her lips, espresso - toned hues sparkling. she was never above idle gossip. " like what ? i neither agreed nor disagreed. wouldn't be surprised if a prenup has been signed. either that or she's about to rob him blind. "
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ he lets out a low chuckle, clearly pleased she’s humored him, even if it’s at the expense of his own dramatics. beau rolls his shoulder, the fabric of his brioni suit shifting smooth as water — no pull, no tension, just perfect tailoring doing exactly what it was meant to. sometimes it makes him feel like something arranged instead of real. dressed up. positioned. a man turned into presentation.
but around her, that feeling eases. just a little. “well, that ain’t any fun, sugarplum,” he drawls, a lazy smirk settling in. “prenup?” he echoes, like the word itself doesn’t sit right in his mouth. he shakes his head, amused but faintly dismissive. “might as well be speakin’ a foreign language.” a soft scoff follows. “that ain’t how it’s supposed to go. not where i’m from.” his gaze drifts for a second, thoughtful now, like he’s pulling from something older than himself.
“adam and eve didn’t stand in no garden negotiatin’ terms,” he continues, voice lower, steadier. “wasn’t no contracts, no exit clauses. just faith. just commitment. you pick someone, you stand by ‘em. that’s it.” he taps his glass lightly against the bar, a quiet rhythm. “you start talkin’ prenups, you’re already plannin’ how it ends before it’s even begun.” a glance back at her, sharper now, but still easy on the surface. “don’t sound too romantic to me.”
⎯⎯ feels like this is the first time today she's found herself at a standstill in all sense of the word . to the naked eye , she looks pristine , not a wrinkle on her dress or a hair out of place despite the fact that today has bore such a harsh weight on her shoulders . everything had to be perfect , the silverware , the linens , each menu item thoughtfully curated to reflect the kind of indisputable prestige the quill name carried ⸺ an unmistakable image she had been entrusted to uphold on one of their most special of days . " sorry , i'll be back in just a second . . . i was just stepping out for some air , " assumes the steps behind her are those of one of her staff , whom she'd asked to bring any issues to her attention discreetly , and to take care of them just the same . tightness in her chest just barely loosens its grip when she turns to find that the person behind her wasn't the bearer of bad news she'd been awaiting ever since she woke this morning . " oh , thank god . . . " relief in her voice is audible , shoulders dropping just as features soften . " i think by the end of the tonight i'll have sprouted enough grey hairs to qualify for an early bird special at the diner , " teases , though sure her mirror will show it's rooted in truth . " did you just come from inside ? do the happy couple seem . . . happy ? " ( accepting )
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ it was a quiet kind of rebellion — the sort that wouldn’t make headlines but would echo in the halls of his mother’s memory all the same. he’d told her he was going alone. firm. no room for argument. vivienne had taken it like a slight, like a stain on silk she couldn’t scrub out, and for once… beau hadn’t bent to fix it. inside, the room buzzed with polished cruelty. the elite of briar bend gathered in tight circles, their laughter too sharp, their words dressed up but rotten at the core. he’d caught pieces of it — the bride reduced to a punchline, a girl they used to sneer at now draped in lace and expectation. it left a bad taste in his mouth. weddings always did.
funny thing was, somewhere beneath all that disdain, something uglier stirred. old wounds. old pride. big daddy had shut a door on him once — years ago — and beau had never quite forgiven it. but watching it all unfold now… he couldn’t help but wonder if maybe the old man had seen something he hadn’t. something beau still refused to name.
his jaw tightens at the thought, and he turns — not left. never left. right. and there she is. it’s instinct at this point. like breathing. like memory. she’s always there, same place, like she belongs to that side of him. his right hand. his steady. his father’s voice flickers through him, low and certain — a good woman’ll always be on your right, son. his hand curls at his side, guilt pricking sharp beneath his ribs. because what they are… it ain’t clean. ain’t simple. it lives in the shadows, tucked away where no one can ruin it. and god help him, he likes it that way. likes that it feels untouched. like the curse that’s followed his family name ain’t got teeth here. not with her.
still — it makes him an ass. and he knows it. but his feet move anyway, like he’s pulled. like there’s a line strung tight between them, invisible but unbreakable. he finds her by the balcony, sunlight catching the edges of her silhouette, turning her into something softer than the chaos inside. for a second, it steals the breath right out of him. “hey…” his voice comes quieter than usual, rough around the edges as he steps closer, resting one shoulder against the frame like he’s trying not to crowd her. “if you were hopin’ for bad news,” he adds, glancing back toward the ballroom before returning his gaze to her, softer now, “i hate to disappoint. they look… happy enough.” a faint smirk tugs at his mouth, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. his attention lingers on her instead — the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s holding herself together just a little too tight.
“you don’t, though,” he murmurs after a beat. gentler now. his hand lifts, slow, careful — like he’s giving her time to pull away — brushing just barely at her arm. grounding. “you look like you’re carryin’ this whole damn wedding on your back.” his gaze dips, searching her face. “c’mere,” he says softly, not quite a command, not quite a question. and it’s quieter than anything else he’s said all night.
"worried they'll run out before you can pick up yours?" when he turned to her rylee shifted in beau's direction. the gleam in her green eyes gave away her teasing but her head started shaking when he attempted to pull her into his line of thinking. "i absolutely was not thinking about big daddy getting his dick hard, and honestly... i'm not sure i wanted to know you were concerned about his erections."
the champagne in her hand was hardly touched. in the last twenty minutes she'd had her fingers grasping the stem the way a proper lady would rylee had only swallowed down a single sip. truth was the blonde wasn't a fan of the stuff. since her mother was around here somewhere judging, the grymes black sheep did her best for appearances sake only.
"why are you so bitter?" the wedding was bullshit, an absolute arrangement, but she wouldn't say that out loud. instead rylee found it laughable that people were jealous of this. her conspiracy theory was that forever had found out big daddy's dirty secret and the truth of what had happened to emerald. "is it because he got married yet again and you still haven't trapped wife number one yet?"
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ beau stills — this time it’s clearer. not loud, not explosive, but there’s a shift. something in him sharpens, like a blade dragged slow across stone. his tongue presses briefly to the inside of his cheek before he exhales a quiet, humorless breath. “that what you think?” he murmurs, voice dropping just enough to lose its easy warmth. he turns to face her fully now, giving her his attention in a way that feels deliberate. measured. dangerous in that soft, southern way.
“that i’m… what was it?” a faint tilt of his head, brows lifting. “strugglin’?” the corner of his mouth pulls, but it ain’t a smile. “sweetheart,” he drawls, slower now, each word placed careful, “if there’s one thing in this world i have never had trouble with…” he lets it hang. doesn’t rush it. lets her sit in it. then he lifts his glass, takes a small sip, eyes never leaving hers.
“… it’s bein’ wanted.” a beat. his gaze flicks down her frame — quick, intentional — then back up like nothin’ happened at all. “now,” he continues, tone smoothing back out but the edge still there, “whether or not i choose to keep what wants me?” a soft huff of amusement leaves him. “that’s a whole different conversation.” he leans a fraction closer, just enough to feel it, not enough to cause a scene. “and you don’t strike me as someone who asks questions she ain’t prepared to hear the answer to,” he adds quietly.
then, just like that, he leans back again — casual, composed, like he didn’t just press the point straight through her. “so,” beau lifts his glass slightly, brows raising, voice back to that polished ease. “you wanna try that one again, or we movin’ on?”
a slow turn of her head, bare shoulder catching the light, diamonds burning cold at her throat. “ please. ” she said, sodden with boredom. “ he’s not marrying because he’s virile. he’s marrying because he’s decaying. ” her gaze swept the room, out of hypocrisy, lingering on the groom with the interest one might give a taxidermy piece. maybe she shouldn’t have slept with him. only then did she glance back at beau, lashes lowering slightly. “ if prescriptions are spiking, ” she muttered under her breath, swirling her champagne, as if it was anything stronger, “ it won’t be for him. ” a pause. “ it’ll be for her. ” she drank without looking away this time.
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ a quiet sigh slips out of him as his gaze drifts — to her, then across the room to big daddy, then back again. his eyes narrow just slightly, something calculating settling in behind them. “hm.” he takes a slow sip of his champagne like he’s got all the time in the world, like he ain’t already decided he wants to hear more. the flute empties quick enough, and he hands it off to a passing waiter without even lookin’, plucking another from the tray — one for him, one for her — pressing it lightly into her hand like it’s second nature.
he leans into the bar then, elbow resting easy against the cool stone, posture loosening just enough to look casual. interested, though. very. “oh, do tell,” beau drawls, tilting his head, eyes flicking past her shoulder toward forever. he lets out a quiet huff of amusement. “cute girl,” he adds, almost offhand. “worked for me a spell. dusted behind the bookshelves.” a small, crooked smile tugs at his mouth. “bless her heart.”
olimpia had been surprised the moment the invitation showed up in her mailbox. it wasn't normal, for things like this to include her. in fact, it was something entirely out of character. she couldn't believe that someone wanted a washed up nascar driver at their wedding, but then she'd sat down and looked everyone up and... well, it seemed they might need her to pad out the attendance, if the marriage is this controversial.
plus, who knew what could happen at a thing like this? it was sure to at least be a good story to tell. like, remember when i went to that elderly man's wedding and he fell asleep at the head table?
so, she bought a designer dress and put on her kitten heels and decided to attend. which left her standing awkwardly near the bar, trying to pretend she didn't exist because she'd realized her mistake the moment she set foot inside this building: she didn't know any of these people. and she was in for what was going to be a very, very lonely night, when someone speaks up next to her — and she can't help but snort at his comments. as inappropriate as they probably are, olimpia has never been able to fault someone for telling the truth.
"i mean, i wasn't really thinking about... what they were going to do in that honeymoon suite," she starts up, frowning at the visual of a man that old, but feeling a bit more happy that she isn't the only one who thinks this whole pomp and circumstance is werid as hell, "but i can't fault you for saying it. do people normally get married at an age this... advanced? in briar bend, i mean. this is my first wedding since i moved."
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ beau makes a low, noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, setting his champagne flute down on the bar with a soft clink. his fingers linger there, drumming lightly against the stem as he turns the question over in his head like it might offend him if he looks at it too long. “what part of town,” he drawls finally, glancing sideways, “is it ever socially acceptable for a sixty year old man to get married?”
he lets out a quiet scoff, already reaching for something stronger, like champagne alone isn’t gonna carry him through this evening. “big daddy’s the kind of man who was meant to die alone,” he adds, tone sharp but easy, like it doesn’t cost him anything to say it. mean, sure — but it sits too close to truth to dress it up. “and now he’s playin’ house? with his maid, no less.” his jaw shifts, shoulders rolling back as if he’s trying to shake off the irritation, but it lingers. he cares more than he’s willing to admit. always does.
“marriage,” beau continues after a beat, voice smoothing back into something lighter, more practiced, “that’s just how things go around here, darlin’. you’ll get an invitation every season whether you want one or not.” he pauses, the corner of his mouth tightening just slightly. “divorce?” he repeats, quieter now, like the word itself leaves a bad taste. he shakes his head once. “no,” he mutters, lifting his drink again. “we ain’t like city folk.”
“fuckin’ hell ,” he muttered under his breath , jaw tightening. this — this wasn’t supposed to be him. reduced to gatekeeping doorways and playing manners police at someone else’s fairytale. he stepped forward anyway. duty won. it always did. “miss ,” he ground out , voice gravel thick , like tires tearing across a bad road. the word sat awkward in his mouth, like he didn’t use it often. “can’t have a bird —” a pause , quick correction , “—a woman like you on these premises.”
his hands came together in front of him , fingers lacing tight just to keep them occupied. his eyes betrayed him again , dipping — just for a second — to the cut of her dress , white and bold in a place it shouldn’t be. christ. look up , you bastard. he forced it , dragging his gaze back to her face , something harder settling there now.
“ain’t exactly polite ,” he said, slower this time , voice evening out into something colder , steadier , “showin’ up to a wedding in white.” a tilt of his chin toward the drive, where her car idled like it hadn’t decided whether to stay or run. “might wanna reconsider your entrance ,” he added, quieter , but no less firm. “before someone else takes more offense than me.”
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ chloe doesn’t answer him right away. the moment stretches , suspended in the thick , slow heat of briar bend — the kind that clings to skin and silk alike. somewhere behind him , laughter drifts faint and distant , glasses clinking , a wedding unfolding in soft focus just beyond the line he’s drawn. but here , at the threshold , it’s quieter. tighter. like the world has narrowed down to just the two of them. and chloe kapoor , bathed in it. she stands like she belongs in a frame rather than a place , white silk catching the late light and turning it into something almost blinding. the fabric doesn’t just sit on her — it moves with her , liquid and deliberate , every shift of her weight sending a soft whisper through it. gold rests against her skin in deliberate excess , bangles stacked high enough to sing softly when she breathes , each note delicate but insistent. her sunglasses , oversized and unforgiving , cast everything they reflect into something warped , gilded — him included.
she tilts her head , studying him through them like he’s something curious. something unexpected. “hmm ,” she hums at last , the sound soft , almost thoughtful , like she’s turning his words over rather than reacting to them. a faint smile follows , polite in shape but not in substance. “that’s funny.” her hand lifts, a slow, absent gesture toward herself — the dress , the gold , the audacity of it all — as if the explanation is obvious , as if he’s the one missing context. “in india, you can never upstage the bride ,” she say , her voice slipping into something lighter , almost conversational , like she’s offering him a small piece of trivia instead of dismissing his authority entirely. “it doesn’t matter what you wear , how late you arrive , how loudly people stare.” a soft breath of a laugh, barely there. “it’s impossible.”
she shifts her weight then , the movement subtle but intentional , the slit of her dress catching just enough to make the white feel less innocent than it pretends to be. her bangles chime — soft , rhythmic , almost like a metronome keeping time for her. “she is the center,” chloe adds , quieter now , like it’s something ingrained rather than explained. “always.” for a moment , it almost sounds sincere.
almost.
then something in her expression refines. not a drop , not a break — just a sharpening. the smile settles differently, less offered, more chosen. her fingers rise to the bridge of her sunglasses , nudging them down just enough for her eyes to meet his fully. dark , lined, steady — far more present than the rest of her has been. “but ,” she continues , and now there’s a softness to her voice that feels far more dangerous than any bite , “i suppose this isn’t india.” the air shifts when she steps forward. not dramatically , not enough to challenge him outright — but enough to make her presence felt in a different way. closer. warmer. the scent of her settles in deeper now — oud , amber , something faintly sweet curling at the edges — wrapping itself around the space between them like it’s decided to stay.
“and you ,” she adds, her gaze moving over him again , slower this time , more deliberate , “aren’t used to women like me.” her eyes flick , briefly , to his hands — still laced tight , still holding something in place — and there it is again. that quiet flicker of amusement , like she’s found something small and satisfying in the tension of him. “you corrected yourself,” she says, almost idly. “bird… to woman.” a pause. not empty — weighted.
“which one were you hoping i’d be ?” she doesn’t wait for him to answer. she never intended to. her attention drifts , just slightly , as if the question has already served its purpose. as if he has. “as for politeness…” the word leaves her in a soft exhale , something that almost resembles a laugh but doesn’t quite commit. it sounds foreign on her , like something she’s repeating rather than believing. “i didn’t come here to be polite.” her gaze drops , slow and appreciative , tracing the line of her own dress like it’s something worth admiring — like she dressed for this exact kind of moment. the white gleams , untouched , unapologetic. “if someone takes offense ,” she continues , her voice lowering just enough to feel closer now , more intimate , more certain, “they’re welcome to try.”
another beat. softer this time. quieter. then she looks back at him , head tilting once more , the faintest glint of something sharper settling into her expression — something that feels like the beginning of a challenge rather than the end of a conversation. “so ,” she says , almost indulgent in her patience now , “are you actually going to stop me…” her gaze slips past him , toward the entrance , toward the music and light and attention waiting just beyond him — already hers , whether he allows it or not.
“… or are you just standing here hoping i’ll decide not to ?”
[ … ] well , my girl's in the next room , sometimes i wish she was you … i guess we never really moved on.
ꕥ ‧₊˚ ⋆ ( paul anthony kelly, cis man, his/him,senior partner at langford, hale & carlyle ) ⸺ spotted drifting through briar bend lately is beauregard langord, the 38 year old scorpio. they're kind of the type that tends to linger a little too long in conversations at the founder’s club. if you ask around town, someone will tell you they always order their vieux carré, wear carrera champion sunglasses, and carry themselves like the prodigal son — though whether that confidence is earned or carefully rehearsed depends entirely on who you ask. their friends insist they’re more disciplined than unfaithful, but critics around briar bend have a different story, usually involving sleeping on one side of the bed even if no one is there of course, in a town where family names are older than most of the buildings and everyone knows exactly which gates lead to which estate, people tend to keep their secrets tucked away where no one can find them. unfortunately for beau, the whispers circling their name lately seem to suggest his mom still schedules his doctor appointments … and goes with him to said appointments — and when the thorn starts circling, it usually means those whispers are about to get a lot louder.
occupation, current: senior partner at langford, hale & carlyle.
occupation, previous: investor.
﹟ 𝗿𝗲𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽𝘀.
mother: vivienne langford.
father: russell langford senior.
siblings: russell junior ( older brother, deceased ), elizabeth “bitsy” langford ( younger sister )
spouse / partner: it's complicated.
children: none.
pets: none.
﹟ 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲.
face claim: pak.
hair color: brown.
eye color: brown.
height: six foot four.
tattoos: none.
piercings: none.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝘀𝘁𝘆𝗹𝗲.
dresses like a man who was taught early that appearances are armor. his suits are almost always dark—charcoal, ink black, deep tobacco brown in the colder months. nothing flashy, nothing loud. the kind of tailoring that doesn’t beg for attention but holds it anyway. slim through the waist, structured in the shoulders, always impeccably pressed. he prefers softer fabrics, cashmere blends and fine wool, things that move with him instead of against him.
his shirts are usually white or pale blue, sleeves rolled just once when he’s working late, tie loosened but never fully removed unless he’s alone. he favors simple ties, muted colors, silk with a faint texture you only notice up close.
there’s always a watch. understated. expensive if you know what you’re looking at, meaningless if you don’t. a gift from his mother, one of the few pieces he never takes off. his hair is kept neat but not severe, dark and slightly too long at the front like he forgets to cut it until someone reminds him. when he’s tired or distracted, he runs a hand through it absentmindedly, pushing it back only for it to fall forward again.
he smells faintly of cedarwood and something warm—amber, maybe, or tobacco leaf. not overpowering. the kind of scent you only notice when he leans in to hear you better. off duty, the look softens but never disappears. dark denim. worn leather boots. button-down shirts with the top button undone, sleeves pushed to the forearms. there’s still a quiet neatness to him, like he was raised in rooms where wrinkled clothes meant carelessness.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰𝘀.
feels like spanish moss swaying in still air, slow as a held breath, like the smell of rain rising off warm pavement at night and porch lights left burning long after everyone’s gone to bed. half-empty whiskey glasses sweating into dark wood, cicadas screaming somewhere far off and endless, tailored suits hanging in quiet closets with their sleeves brushing together in the dark. late-night city windows glowing like distant stars and the low hum of an air conditioner in a room too big for one person, old money estates where the paint peels just beneath the grandeur. fog rolling over black water at dawn. cufflinks placed carefully beside a watch on a marble nightstand. tire tracks vanishing into wet dirt roads. music drifting faintly from another room you almost don’t enter. letters never answered, stacked and yellowing in a drawer. headlights slicing through heavy rain. the soft crack of ice settling in a glass. abandoned docks silvered by time. a hand resting on a shoulder for half a second too long. cigarette smoke curling into cold night air. songs on the radio that feel too personal to survive a second listen. leather seats warmed by the sun. shadows stretching long across polished floors. expensive cologne lingering in empty elevators. conversations that fade into silence instead of ending. mirrors in dim light, reflections kinder than truth. thunder rolling somewhere far away but never quite arriving. magnolia blossoms browning delicately at the edges. the quiet, unsettling feeling of being watched by memory. a skyline blurred through rain-streaked glass. and love — heavy as humidity — clinging, inescapable, everywhere.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆.
never the roaring type. no thunder in his chest. no booming laugh that filled a room. as a boy he stood half a step behind his brother, hands tucked into pockets, watching more than speaking. russell jr. had presence. beau had quiet. he learned early that silence kept you safe—that if you didn’t take up too much space, you couldn’t be blamed for breaking it.
when his brother died, that quiet calcified. he carries guilt the way some men carry cologne—constant, clinging, subtle but always there. he feels indebted to his parents in a way that shapes everything he does. as if he is living on borrowed breath. as if every achievement is repayment. he overcompensates relentlessly: better grades, better suits, better deals. he becomes the son who doesn’t cause trouble, the son who performs, the son who stays.
to the public, beauguard langford is something else entirely. glossy magazine features. society pages. a finance prodigy with an easy smirk and a different woman on his arm at every gala. he photographs well. he wears wealth like it’s second skin. people call him untouchable. a playboy. a man who never stays long enough to get caught.
they mistake detachment for confidence. truth is, beau is shy in ways that never quite left him. he listens more than he talks. in conversation, he tilts his head slightly, as if memorizing you. he remembers details—your sister’s name, your favorite drink, the way you take your coffee. he is patient. kind in quiet, almost unnoticeable ways. he tips generously. he checks in when someone’s mother is sick. he waits for you to finish speaking instead of cutting in.
but kindness doesn’t make him brave. he keeps people at arm’s length because closeness feels dangerous. love feels like something that can be taken, drowned, driven off a cliff. he is unfaithful not always out of lust, but out of fear—if he never gives himself fully, he can never be fully abandoned. he ghosts when things start to feel real. disappears into work. into flights. into silence. he tells himself it’s mercy.
and yet, when no one pushes back—when no one demands to know where he’s been, what he’s thinking, why he’s hurting—it unsettles him. he wants to be known. he just doesn’t know how to stand still long enough for someone to learn him. there’s a quiet resentment in him too. a soft bitterness that blooms when he feels unseen beneath the langford name. he gives, and gives, and gives—money, time, charm—and waits for someone to ask how he’s holding up. rarely do.
underneath the tailored suits and practiced composure is still that timid boy by the lake, watching the water, afraid of what might pull him under. beauregard langford is gentle by instinct. guarded by design. and destructive in ways he doesn’t always mean to be.
[ ✿ ] 𝗅𝗈𝖺𝖽𝗂𝗇𝗀 . . . . 𝗯𝗶𝗼𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗵𝘆.
beauregard langford is the prodigal son of louisiana — old money sunk deep into wet earth, where the bayou breathes heavy and the oaks hang low with spanish moss like mourning veils. the langfords have lived there so long their name is etched into courthouse marble and church pew brass. people don’t just know them. they lower their voices when they say them. but beau? he is not the eldest, he is the second.
vivienne langford used to smooth down his hair and call him her sweet boy, her spared one. coddled, she’d say with a sad sort of smile. spared from what his father made of the first. russell langford sr. is a man carved from cypress and pride. a quiet, immovable thing. he built his sons the way he builds houses — square corners, strong beams, no room for softness. the firstborn, russell jr., was meant to be the heir. meant to carry the weight. meant to be unbreakable.
but boys break.
it wasn’t beau’s fault that russell jr. took that curve too fast on a rain-slicked road, tires screaming before the drop swallowed him whole. it wasn’t beau’s fault the bayou whispered about curses and debts owed to god. it wasn’t his fault that elizabeth stopped speaking at fourteen. her voice folding inward like a wilted magnolia after the funeral. she moves through the house like a ghost now, pale and watchful, eyes full of something that never finds its way out.
still, the town says it’s the langford way. you’re cursed. even if you don’t know it yet. it wasn’t always heavy for beau. once, there was summer. there was cash delacroix. cash had been from good stock too, until it all went to rot. his daddy died mean and sudden. his mama stepped out one humid afternoon and never came back—no note, no body, just swamp and silence. folks said the delacroix line was cursed real bad. cash was the only one left standing, skinny and sunburnt and stubborn as sin.
beau and cash grew up barefoot at the lake, mud between their toes, cicadas screaming in the trees. cash would rinse the dirt from beau’s feet before they ran home so vivienne wouldn’t fuss. he held beau’s shoulders when russell jr. disappeared beneath dark water once, dragged him up coughing and terrified. they were brothers in everything but blood. confidants. co-conspirators. two boys convinced the bayou could never swallow them whole. but the swamp always collects its due.
her name was dinah. big daddy’s daughter. the kind of girl raised behind iron gates and shotgun warnings. sharp chin, sharper tongue, and a laugh that could split a man clean in two. beau swears he loved her more. loved her in a way that meant something permanent. cash loved her like a wildfire—quick, bright, dangerous. dinah didn’t belong to either of them.
she left lousiana with a guitar slung over her shoulder and a dream too big for parish lines. now her face stares down from billboards on the interstate. her voice pours from the radio at dusk, honey-thick and laced with ache. beau pretends he doesn’t know who the boy with the tired eyes is in her songs. pretends he doesn’t recognize himself in the verses about a house too big and a love too small.
he went to college because that’s what langford men do. epsilon rho omega—eros—just like his daddy, and his daddy before him. frat president. rugby king. a bedroom with a revolving door and no names worth remembering. he majored in finance, though it hardly mattered. russell langford sr.’s name is etched into the brick outside the library; beau walked through doors already opened for him. he was there for polish. for status. for the shine of it.
now he buys properties. flips land. invests in things that can’t feel and can’t leave. he wears tailored suits that fit like armor. vivienne circles him like a restless bird, pressing names of suitable girls into his palm—mary sues with family money and clean reputations. she wants a wedding before the year is out. wants grandchildren to quiet the halls.
but every time the radio hums and that voice drifts through—his pretty bird he never could cage—his jaw tightens. he hears she’s back in town sometimes. hears she’s been seen with cash, laughing outside that rotting shack he calls home, dealing in things that keep the parish gossiping. the thought makes something feral rise in him.
that’s your best friend, beau.
the boy who wiped your tears when your brother didn’t come back up.
the boy who stood between you and the dark.
he tells himself he won’t be like vivienne, clutching too tight until love turns brittle. he tells himself he won’t be like russell sr., silent in his study, staring out the window at land he owns but doesn’t feel, afraid that if he speaks too loud god might finally notice the debt.
beauregard langford was born with everything a man could want. and still, at night, when the swamp hums and the house settles around him, he wonders if the bluff has already decided how his story ends.
now beau lives in the bend, where the estates rise like cliffs and the sky is just a narrow ribbon overhead. he’s making it big, or at least that’s what the papers like to say. investment firms. real estate deals. long tables of men in dark suits talking numbers that could buy whole towns like the one he came from. money moves fast here, faster than the tide, and beau learned quick how to ride it.
but life moves different in the bend. it isn’t intimate like the bayou, where every face is familiar and every sin remembered. here you can vanish in a crowd of thousands and still feel like you’re being watched. the noise never stops.the air smells like greenery instead of rainwater and rot. some nights he misses the sound of frogs so bad it aches in his chest.
and there’s pressure. god, there’s pressure.
because vivienne langford isn’t just some southern socialite. vivienne langford is the daughter of a president, raised in marble halls and under chandeliers, taught from birth how power works and how quickly it disappears. the langfords carry money, but vivienne carries legacy, the kind printed in history books.
she calls him every sunday without fail. asks about his work, about his contacts, about the kind of people he’s meeting. her voice is gentle, but there’s iron underneath it. she didn’t raise a son to be ordinary. she expects greatness, the kind that makes headlines and shapes rooms.
but beau isn’t a politics man.
he doesn’t have the stomach for smiling at people he hates or shaking hands with men who smell like ambition and lies. numbers make sense. markets make sense. power traded in percentages and paper feels cleaner than power traded in promises.
still, he feels the weight of expectation pressing between his shoulders every time his last name is spoken aloud in those glass offices.
langford.langford.langford.
and everywhere he turns, there she is.
dinah's face on screens in bars, in taxis, in the glowing windows of electronics stores. her voice drifting through restaurants, through hotel lobbies, through late-night radios in the back of hired cars. she’s bigger now, brighter, untouchable in a way she never was back home. the whole world knows her name.
sometimes he stands on a sidewalk at two in the morning, collar turned up against the cold, staring at a billboard where she’s laughing at something just out of frame. and for a second, the city goes quiet in his head, and he’s back in lousiana, sweat on his neck, her bare feet kicking dust as she spins in the yard.
he wonders if she ever thinks of him.
wonders if cash is still there beside her when the lights go out.
beau tells himself he left the bayou behind. tells himself he’s built something bigger, something stronger, something that can’t be drowned or buried or cursed.
but sometimes, lying awake in a high-rise apartment with the city humming beneath him, he feels the same old weight pressing on his ribs.
as if the swamp followed him.
as if some things don’t loosen their grip, no matter how far you run.
𝞋𝞎 ˖ ⊹ beau langford had been raised to believe that hatred was a sin. good christian men forgave. they turned the other cheek. they prayed on it and let the lord sort the rest. but lord have mercy , beau langford hated silas quill. it sat bitter on his tongue, rotted at the back of his teeth every time that man’s name came up. he’d spent the better part of an hour pacing his suite , whining into the phone to his mother like a boy half his age , cataloguing every offense real or imagined. she’d told him to behave.
and still — he showed up. because that’s what men like beau langford did. they smiled pretty , wore something tailored and expensive , and stood in rooms they couldn’t stand just to prove they belonged there more than anyone else. tonight was no different. pressed suit , champagne in hand , looking every bit the brooding heir — even if the expression on his face was less mystery and more poorly disguised disdain.
“ old fuck gettin’ married , ” he muttered into the rim of his champagne flute before taking a slow sip. “ viagra prescriptions probably spiked clean through the roof in briar bend this week. ” he scoffed under his breath , shaking his head as if the whole affair personally offended him. then he turned slightly , catching someone beside him in his peripheral. “ oh , c’mon , ” beau drawled , one brow lifting as a crooked grin pulled at his mouth. “ don’t look at me like that. we’re all thinkin’ the same thing. ”
